The sea, to the mountains, to the river - Hone Tuwhare

The sea, to the mountains, to the river
- Hone Tuwhare

Far off
the sea beckons
to the mountains.

Austerely
the mountains ponder
the cacaphonic river tossing
white-splintered mane to the
mists swirl.

Here
alien sounds are struck.
Nowhere is the greater fuss
to tear out the river’s tongue.

Blue hiss a crackle
of the welding rod,
compressed sigh of air
and the whump and whoof
fuse to the rising clamour
of the rivet gun.

Cursing
scuffing the earth with massive
boots, men are walking away:
and from the smoke-wreathed shoulder
of a crouching hill a gigantic fist
of sound unfolds – shattering the clouds.

Coaxed into staccato life
a tractor nonchalantly puffs
perfect rings into the startled air.

Exulting men
as skilled as spiders thread
a skyline of steel crucifixes.

The sea beckons
again and again
to the mountains. Unmoved
the austere mountains ponder
a silence as profound as stars..

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